It is twelve years today. My “infant” son is preparing for his bar mitzvah. I tell my children about that day though New York is far away for me and entirely foreign to them. I have had people ask if September 11th is what made us leave New York. It wasn’t but it certainly made it easier to leave.

They don’t know that on my first few visits back to New York, while holding their hands, I would glance up half expecting to see shadows of men falling from the sky.

When my children went to bed tonight, I got my suit down from the cupboard above my closet and looked at it as I do every year on this day. Some years I am tempted to try it on but can’t as it holds a power over more than just me. I lift the plastic dry cleaning wrapper and touch the fabric. My suit is deep grey, the color of soot and loss; a speckled fabric that’s grainy like near forgotten photos and memories from long ago. Moments later I climb back on my chair and stretch to put it back in the cupboard above.

I receive an e-mail later that evening from a dear friend in New York, “I still think of what you went through on 9/11. Give Ian [my son] an extra hug.” I will save that e-mail for certain.

I wonder when it will be time to get rid of my suit. Not this year. Not yet. It’s still too soon.

In Memory of Scott Schertzer and Kevin Cohen and the other victims of 9/11. May their memories be a blessing.

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One Response to “Sorting Through Old Things: Reflections On September 11th”

In the quaint and picturesque Hungarian town of Szentendre (Saint Andrew), just outside of Budapest, our group of five new friends who had gathered from throughout the Jewish world bask in the sunlight, seemingly frozen in time. We weave along the cobblestone streets browsing in and out of charming little shops offering handmade crafts, delicate latticework, whimsical wooden toys and intricately painted porcelain. We sit outside and feast on pastries that look more like art than edibles and ice coffee is reminiscent of ice cream floats.

It started as my daughter’s third grade assignment: choose a person to write about, preferably an American, preferably a Jew. We were going to do just that. I intended to help my daughter choose the topic and then to back away yet, Emma Lazarus ended up drawing me in.

I met Mr. E at a poetry reading. Hong Kong’s literary scene is small and two Americans reading in one evening was an unusual event. We became Facebook friends, generally “liking” the same local literary events and book launches.

A Hong Kong symphony of sounds fills the air as local laborers shout across the shul courtyard in Cantonese while tossing bamboo in a pile for the sukkah: Filipino maids chatter in Tagalog hovering over the children in their charge, the radio of the Nepalese gurkhas, the Synagogue security, crackles and jackhammers provide the background music. The thick air and humidity within the walls of the partially constructed bamboo sukkah sharply contrasts with the crisp fall air of Sukkot in the northeastern corridor of the United States, where the sukkahs of my childhood were laden with dried fruit and autumn color. Dozens of colorful miniature Chinese paper lanterns dangle from the sukkah and here replace the burnt orange and golden gourds of autumn.